


Actors Playing Pretend

by MashpotatoeQueen5



Series: The Problem With Galas [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: And we are all okay with this, Batanese, Batman is Batdad, Blood, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Bruce Wayne is intensely awkward, Concussions, Dad Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick is a precious smol bean, Dick just really wants Bruce, Dick just wants Bruce, Dick never wants to go to one ever again, Galas, Galas are horrible, Gen, Getting kidnapped is scary, He may be a hero but he's still just kid, Kid Dick Grayson - Freeform, Kidnappers - Freeform, Kidnappers are jerks, Kidnapping, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Police, Protective Bruce Wayne, So not Baby Dick, Socialites - Freeform, The most beautiful most used trope of all, Though he's twelve, We still love him though, daddy bats, daddy!Bats, done, give him a break, gun - Freeform, he is also super tired, he must be protected at all costs, he's so done, just like, kidnapped Dick Grayson, knife, well he's trying at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 09:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14233842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MashpotatoeQueen5/pseuds/MashpotatoeQueen5
Summary: Galas are an issue, because something always goes wrong, and no one knows this better than Dick Grayson. (It's a bit of a problem, actually, but he can always depend on Bruce to get him out of trouble.)In which Dick is twelve, a bit more experienced with this whole gala thing, very much freaking out about being kidnapped and very much trying not to be, Bruce just wants his kid to be okay, and there is drugged orange juice.They figure things out, eventually.





	Actors Playing Pretend

**Author's Note:**

> I HAVE RETURNEDDDDD!!!

Never let it be said that Dick Grayson wasn’t a brilliant actor. Because he was. He really and truly was. Five hours into the absolutely ridiculous gala, filled with condescending glares and pitying glances and judging looks and mocking whispers and constant, deadly boring streams of useless  _ How do you do _ ’s and  _ Nice to meet you _ ’s and  _ Very well _ ’s and the oh so dreaded  _ Twelve now, actually, not eleven _ ’s. And, of course, people trying to warm up to him to get to Bruce and no guardian in general, as the elder man was surrounded by far too many socialites to even  _ think  _ about attempting an intervention to get to his side...

And yet, he hadn’t snapped, not once. His smile was still firm on his face and no one had been judo flipped, and he deserved a freakin’ Tony award after this because he was _ just that good. _

Also, he had yet to die of boredom, which was a plus and a very defined skill as well.

Bruce owed him big time, for this. Like, giving Robin some solo nights during patrol, big time. He had  _ earned _ it.

At last, he had managed to sweet talk enough fancy rich people in another direction to find himself in a mostly unoccupied corridor. Ducking in between two pillars, Dick allowed himself to thunk his head on the wall behind him, to close his eyes and just breathe for a second, to let the persona drop. According to his watch, he had just another forty five minutes to go, and then he could grab Bruce and get the hell out of dodge and back to the Manor,  _ back to home _ , and all would be well once more.

Which was good, because, in all honesty, his leg was starting to hurt after all this standing around, the still healing bone aching underneath the expensive fabric.

Two Face was nasty at the best of times.

His thoughts of escape were interrupted when someone cleared their throat, and for half a moment his mind goes berserk- _ because, oh no, it was a reporter, wasn’t it, it was always an reporter, why did it always have to be a reporter, he _ hated  _ reporters _ \- but then he opened his eyes and was pleasantly surprised to find that it was simply one of the walking waiters, a tray of what looked like orange juice balanced in his palm.

“Would ya like a drink, lad?”

And Dick blinked, because this was a little out of the way for a waiter, they usually tended to stay in the center of the crowds or enroute to the kitchen for refills, but then he shrugged the thought away. After all, he couldn’t be the only one who got tired of masses of people and constant loud, annoying, often highly fake sounding chatter. And, even more so, he didn’t know how the patrons of this gala ran their ship: perhaps they liked having a couple of roving waiters waiting on the outside, prepared to serve any outcasts.

So he said sure, grabbed one of tha glasses and raised it to his lips, and then paused. 

“Wait, this isn’t alcoholic, right?”

The man smiled a little crookedly, his face tilted to the side and half covered in shadow.

“You think I would serve alcohol to a minor?”

(Briefly his mind flashes back, to another man with a crooked face, one side normal and one side deteriorated, and a crowbar and  _ pain, _ but he brushes it aside, because that’s not here, that’s not  _ now _ ,  _ he was safe, he was safe… _ )

Dick grinned, raising the glass to his lips once again.

“Just checking.”

You could never be too sure, after all, at a socialite’s party.

(And he was one of the greatest actors in the world, he was sure…)

The liquid was sweet, almost overly so, but cold and refreshing, if not with the slightest hint of a strange aftertaste. Dick rolled the flavor along his tongue, took another sip, trying to place it. Mango? Melon? No, no, not that…

And, huh, wasn’t that weird. The waiter was wandering off, but in the completely wrong direction of any guests. In fact, he was opening an exit door that lead to one of the many high railed terraces, why would he do that?

And there were people heading toward him in suits, and he almost groaned, because he did  _ not _ want to engage in more polite conversation right now, and his head was really starting to feel quite funny and his limbs really starting to feel rather uncoordinated, and he tried to raise his hand to take another sip of the juice but his fingers weren't working quite right and his glass was dropping shattering on the ground below and spilling smooth orange liquid on his tuxedo.

Dick looked down at his pant legs and frowned, because Alfred would be so sad because he had _ liked _ this suit and had spent a lot of time tailoring it for him and-

And the suited men were grabbing his arms and directing him towards the door to the terrace, and wait, that wasn’t right, why were they doing that,  _ why were they holding him, let go, let go, why wouldn’t they let go _ -

“H-Hey, wha- whus goin’ on?”

Was that his voice? It sounded wrong. Mumbled. Slurred.

His head hurt.

And then he realized what that tangy aftertaste was, why his thoughts were so muffled and his limbs so uncoordinated;  it was some sort of drug, and a strong one as well, and  _ Oh man, oh man, Bruce was going to _ kill  _ him _ -

He began to struggle in earnest, but it was too late, they were already outside, and the cool night air was refreshing but the hands bruising his arms were not and he would  _ definitely _ take being bored over this…

And he was yelling, now, and digging his heels into the ground, and the men were getting restless, one of them slamming his  _ disgusting  _ sweaty grimy fingers over his mouth to keep him quiet.

Dick, as drugged out of it as he was, took mild pleasure in the way the man yelped when he bit him.

But then there was something pointed being jammed in his neck and another hand over his mouth, and it stung, and if Bruce- or even better, Batman, who could actually fight without it being suspicious- could show up right at this moment and stop this whole fiasco before it even began, that would be really, really great...

And the needle being dragged out stung, but the pain was quickly fading into a scary dull numbness, and the world was wavering in and out of focus, now, lights blurring into massive supernovae before his very eyes, and his head was beginning to really pound, even as his useless legs decided to finally give up on life and buckle, leaving the man holding him tight by the waist the only thing keeping him upright.

The fingers were slipping from his mouth now, but he had no mind to yell, because his eyes were getting heavy and his brain was shutting down, and someone was picking him up and swinging him over their shoulder and moving in heavy, swinging motions that made Dick sick to his stomach. His last thoughts were on Bruce, because there  _ had  _ to be less than forty five minutes before their time to spend at the gala was up, and Dick is supposed to pop up at Bruce’s side, smile charmingly, and then proceed to drag him to the limo.

When he didn’t show up, Bruce would know something was wrong. He would know. And then he would come and find him. He always did.

_ He… He always did…. _

_ Always…. _

But his thoughts could not linger, for the blackness was swallowing him whole…

And then there was nothing but darkness.

* * *

 

At one point, he woke.

His vision was blurry and there were lights and flashing colours pressing into his eyeballs, and someone was holding him upright- heaven knows he wouldn’t have been able to do it himself- and there was something cold and sharp pressed against his neck ( _ a knife? _ ) and people were shouting everywhere. He almost thought he heard Bruce, and so he tried to open his eyes again, but then he was being dragged backwards, dragged away, dragged away from Bruce, so he tugged at the arms holding him because _ that wasn’t right, he belonged with Bruce _ \- 

And a completely different kind of metal- a needle, he didn’t like those- was being driven into his neck again and the world was gone, gone, gone again, and the whole experience was so surreal and distant he dismissed it as a dream as everything faded from view once more...

* * *

 

He woke up in a van.

Or, he was pretty sure it was in a van, because he could feel the vibrations of an engine against his cheek and he could spot a strange lump in the room- _ trunk?- _ he was in that hinted at a tire….

But- But that would make no sense? Wasn’t he… wasn’t he at a gala? With Bruce? If they were going home, why wasn’t Bruce with him? And why was he in the trunk of a van and not in their limo? And why did it smell so bad? And where was Alfred?  _ And why was he tied up? He wasn’t supposed to be tied up, being tied up was bad, bad, bad _ …

But then the half remembered tang of orange juice on his tongue and the sharp jab of a needle was in his neck, and he let his pounding head rest heavy. This wasn’t… This wasn’t good. This wasn’t how the night was supposed to turn out. At all. He was supposed to be back at the manor, suiting up for some light late night patrol, not tied up and drugged in the back of a van….

He was tied up and drugged in the back of a van.

_ Not good, not good, not good _ -

But no, no he couldn’t panic. He _ wouldn’t  _ panic. Panicking never helped anyone, ever. This was fine. He was fine. It was just some lowly life thugs who just wanted to make a little money. He was Dick Grayson, right now, not Robin, _ they just wanted a little money, and Bruce would find him, and everything was going to be okay _ -

His mind flashed back, to the warehouse, to Scarecrow and Two Face and the crow bar and the fear gas raging everywhere, to being scared, to hurting, to thinking W _ here is Batman? Batman is supposed be here by now _ … and those thoughts slowly reverting to  _ Bruce!? Bruce where are you!? Bruce, he’s hurting me, it hurts, make it stop, make it  _ stop….

His breath hitched, and then he gagged as the motion brought his attention to the dirtied cloth stuffed in his mouth.

But then there was just too little _ air _ and he couldn’t  _ breathe _ and why was it always at a gala that this happened?  _ Why, why, why _ … He was never going to go to another one for as long as he lived….  _ And where did all the air go, again!? _

And maybe he was being louder than he thought, because that was the car parking roughly, and then someone was yanking the back door open and pulling him upright, and he would be mad at the manhandling but all he really cared about was how the guy yanked off his gag and he could spit out the cloth and  _ breathe _ again.

He put his head between his knees, feeling dizzy and sick to his stomach at the slightest motion, and he hated how he knew that his kidnappers were watching him, hated how weak he was being, but he focused on breathing, just focused on breathing….

Eventually, he became aware that the men were chatting and there was the sounds of a highway in the distance. He blinked, eyes blurry and head still feeling stuffed with fluff, and shifted a little, testing the guy’s grip on his arm without making it to obvious he was doing so.

But his limbs felt uncoordinated and unconnected to his brain, and the next thing he knew the guy was pounding him on the back- which drew out a ragged cough from his over abused lungs- and he was being thrown into the back of the truck once more, head cracking smartly against the floor.

His ears were ringing, and his eyelids were closing, and everything ached and there would be bruises in the morning, and his eyes were feeling suspiciously wet but  _ hell _ , he was  _ not _ going to cry-

The car jerked off again, and he was shifted around with the luggage, and every movement _ hurt _ , and his still healing leg felt like it was on fire, and he was honestly going to outright throw up soon, and Bruce  _ still  _ wasn’t here yet, and in those moments Dick Grayson decided that he could stand to lose a few hours.

His eyes closed, and the darkness took over his vision once more.

* * *

 

The third time he woke, he was tied to a chair and his brain was actually active enough to function even though it was pounding and everything was aching, and the fact that he was pretty sure he had bruises in places on him he didn’t even know existed…

And then bile was coming up to his throat and he was swallowing it back down, keeping very, very still.

Because he wasn’t alone in the room, there were others, and he didn’t want to ‘wake up’ because that would mean pain.

Mildly, in the back of his mind, he wished Bruce would hurry up and get him, because, surprisingly, the knots tying him to the chair were really good, and his numb fingers and his drugged up mind and his terror fueled body-  _ because it was happening again, oh no, oh god no, not again-  _ weren't able to untie them.

He felt so  _ uncoordinated _ , as if he wasn’t in control of his own body, and his right ear kept ringing and his left leg kept burning and there was a narrow cut that kept stinging on his neck and his eyes felt so, so tired that he could probably just fall asleep…

And then someone slapped him. Hard.

His head jerked sideways in surprise, and  _ Ow, that hurt _ , and almost against his conscious decision his eyes were flickering open, gazing at the man above him in an almost confused sort of way- because  _ Why would you even do that? _ \- even as his brain mentally slapped itself because he knew why, these people were bad guys, and they could care less that he was a minor and an innocent.

To them, he would always just be a means to an end.

And even though his spirits were low and his brain was slow in thought process and his hands were tied with scratchy rope and that slap was sure to bruise and his leg had red hot strings of pain jolting up it from where it was tied to the stool base, even then, he was a brilliant actor.

( _ He had had worse.) _

“Wha- What do ya want from me? Le-Let me go.”

_ Oooh, slurring. Nice touch, Grayson. _

The man slapped him again, and his head jerked again, and at this rate he was probably going to get whiplash. The guy was holding his face, squishing his cheeks, and the whole situation was distinctly uncomfortable.

He blinked up at the man, face still squashed, thoughts still heavy and slow.

The man was yelling.

“Get the camera set up; let’s give ‘ol Brucie a heads up, eh?”

Oh.  _ Oh _ , that was not good. _ Not good, not good, not good. _

Dick jerked his face out of the man’s grasp, and he knew that his skin was blanched white and he knew that something bad was gonna happen, that the camera being set up in front of him was _ never _ a good sign, and if Batman could show up and save the day  _ right this second, please _ -

The red light flickered on, and the video began.

At first, the guy was just talking, and Dick allowed himself a couple of moments to hope. Maybe, maybe this was just going to be one of those times where he got to sit in the background and look scared and didn’t actually have to get hurt. Maybe, this time, his skills as an actor would be enough. Maybe, this time, he wouldn’t have to be more of a victim than he already was-

A solid punch to the jaw changed his mind, and his head was dizzy and his neck really was starting to burn from the sudden jerkings and his leg was straining from it’s tightened position on the stool.

He felt something wet and warm trickle down onto his collar bone. The knife cut must have broken open again.

Another punch to the jaw.

He spat out blood, the copper taste filling his mouth.

And his head was becoming stuffy again from pain, everything ached and his limbs still felt so  _ jittery _ and uncoordinated and he just really, _ really  _ wanted to go home, _ right about now would be great. _

He felt cold, and the guy was boasting again, and-

And, and he felt cold.

_ Had he already thought that? _

He could have argued. He could have yelled. He could have been a complete smart alec and spat on the man’s shoes. But he didn’t. That was Robin. That was Robin and right now he was playing the role of Dick Grayson, and he was far too good an actor to ever slip up like that.

( _ He was tired, and his head hurt, and his everything hurt, and he was drugged up and tied up and it would probably be better if he kept his mouth shut. _ )

He let his head go lax, his eyes flicking this way and that, the man was going to let Bruce speak to him soon, that was almost always the drill, and as long as they didn’t drug him again he could help-

There. Window. They were at a pier. They were at a warehouse at a pear. He smelt salt water- Ocean. Gotham had rivers, and one decently sized lake nearby. So warehouse, a few hours out of Gotham, he would reckon.

( _ He wanted to go home. What would get him home the fastest? _ )

Now to play the part.

Sure enough, a phone was shoved between his ear and shoulder, some thug’s hand keeping it in place even as the man’s disgusting breath filtered in Dick’s nose.

A breath. Even drugged up with whatever they had given him and no small amount of pain, Dick was a master at Batanese. In fact, some would say that he was at the top of his game when he was in moments such as these. 

Dick wasn’t so sure. He just knew that he prefered playing with words and finding hidden meanings when he could actually see straight and all the colours weren’t tinted yellow.

“...B?”

_ Where are you? _

Another, this one relieved.

“Dick. Hey. Hey, stay right where you are, kay bud? The police are looking for you.”

_ The kidnapping was public, Brucie’s under watch: no Batman. Police are closing in, though. Sit tight. Don’t escape on your own. Location? _

“Hmm…  Don’t feel so good, Bruce…. warehouse smells salty…”

_ At a warehouse next to the ocean. _

“Are you okay? Dick?”

_ Is there need for an ambulance? _

“...Put somethin’ in m’ drink…”

_ Drugged up, but no life threatening injuries. _

“Okay, okay, kiddo, we’re comin’ for ya. It’s going to be alright.”

_ We’re close. _

“Bru-GAH!”

Someone had taken his tied up fingers and smashed them.

He curled into himself as far as the ropes would allow, breath hitching painfully after the initial yelp, and that was  _ fire _ coursing through his fingers, and he was squeezing his eyes shut, because even brilliant actors cried for real sometimes.

There was pressure being placed on his fingers now, and it was burning, and the man holding the phone to his ear still had a horrible breath and Bruce was talking in his ear, voice a little louder and a little more panicked (just a little, though, because this was  _ Bruce  _ that was talking) asking worried questions and Dick just needed the elder man to  _ shut up  _ for just one second- _ No, no, don’t shut up, don’t ever shut up, he was hurting and he was scared and he needed Bruce to be here, not on a phone a thousand miles away, please hurry up, please come _ \- and he just needed to  _ breathe  _ for just one second.

And he was an actor, and he managed a soft  _ Fine  _ for the worried voice in his ear, even though he was far from it.

He felt sick, face pale and soaked in sweat, head heavy and stuffed in cotton balls, limbs unresponsive and achy, fingers bruised and swollen and possibly broken, and a small constant sting zipping it’s way through his body, making his arms and legs spasm with random jitters he had no control over.

_ Withdrawal _ , his mid supplied. But that wasn’t right… _ Overdose? _

And he was an actor, and he sat still and silent, breathing heavily and listening to the soothing tones in his ear until it was dragged away, and then kept right on breathing, even though all he really wanted to do was cry.

And he was an actor, and he made his heart rate slow to a quiet pace and his body slouch in all it’s natural angles, and he closed his eyes and waited for all the men surrounding him to notice that their charge had supposedly fallen unconscious.

_ He was tired _ .

And he was an actor, and he kept still and breathing slowly, ignoring the pain and ignoring the humiliation, as one by one the thugs lost interest and left.

_ So, so tired. _

And he was an actor, and he kept still until the sirens started ringing and there was shouting and gunshots, and the police and paramedics had arrived, storming the room and untying the ropes, flashing lights in his eyes and rattling off questions.

And as he was an actor, he chose to ignore said questions and said lights. They were for some other role, he was sure. No, there was only one course of story meant for him.

He looked at the woman in front of him, asked his question, and pretended to himself that the slur was on purpose.

“...Bruce?”

The woman fell silent, and as he was an actor, so he put a bit of desperate youngness in his eyes, and she gave in.

_ Totally deserve a Tony, and maybe an Oscar, too. _

So they lead him outside, and he made his steps stumbly and lethargic, like a newly born lamb- or maybe that wasn’t on purpose, he wasn’t sure anymore- and he ignored the pounding headache and his clenching stomach, eyes wide and searching.

When they fell on Bruce, he broke away from the officer’s guiding hands, simply allowing himself to collapse in the elder man’s arms, broken fingers tucked closely to his own chest. Bruce was swiping his fingers through his hair, and Dick knew that the black locks were probably tangled and dirtied, matted with blood, but he couldn’t bring himself to care; Bruce was an actor as well, he could always play pretend.

And Dick Grayson was an actor, a brilliant one at that, and he could smile and lie and pretend with his actions and words, keep two separate identities a part without a second thought, but even more impressive he could lie to himself, create an illusion of safety and calm when there was no such thing. He could say stumbling was a choice instead of mandatory, and that his hurts were minimal when indeed they were many, and that was a skill few could claim.

But Bruce was an actor, one even better than him, and he knew all the tricks, all the ploys, all the signs that one thing was another when one thing was not, and if Dick was an actor, and Bruce was an actor…

Then it would be okay, for a little while, to stop playing pretend.

And Dick closed his eyes, let his head rest heavy, clutched in the embrace of a man that meant more than the whole wide world, and there would be hospitals and sirens and questions, but that wasn’t now, and he could be fine by then.

He would be fine by then. That was an actor’s job.

For now… for now he thought it okay if he stayed right where he was, safe in Bruce’s arms, exhausted and cold and hurting, maybe a little broken, but finally, finally home.


End file.
